Saying Goodbye
by WhisperToMeSoftly
Summary: Michael needs to leave Ireland, but there's someone he's finding it hard to say goodbye to...:oneshot:


_Spies don't enjoy saying goodbye. They don't usually get the chance to, and when they do, they prefer not to anyway. Some of them think it adds to the prestige, to vanish into thin air. Sometimes it leaves unnecessary links behind: just going 'poof' in a puff of smoke cuts everything cleanly. _

_The problem: sometimes, vanishing is so much harder._

The digits glowed red in the dark: 3:30 am. Michael Westen stared at those numbers blankly, pressing his face against the pillow. It still smelled faintly like hotel laundry soap—he suspected they all used the same brand. The scent, artificial yet gentle, comforted him slightly. Gave him courage.

Damn it. He didn't want that courage. He didn't want to go.

He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek further into the soft fabric. Memories leapt at him from within the depths of his mind, reminding him…

_Go, go, go…_

_Soon it will be too late…_

_And if it's too late for you…_

_…it's too late for her._

The operation had gone downhill. Jacob had seen Harry being taken down on Broad Street, they were all leaving the country. The target had gone underground. His employees were searching for him and Jacob, the only ones still in the country. They had to leave.

She sighed in her sleep. He closed his eyes, half-wishing he could bottle that sigh and listen to it for hours. Sleep seemed to be the only time Fiona was at peace. Her face would relax, her vibrant green eyes would close, her breathing would slow. She always seemed to be in motion—then she drifted off, and her body would still.

Usually she would fall asleep on his chest. He had no idea why. If he dropped off to sleep before she did, he would awake to find her on top of him, sleeping soundly. Strange, that such an independent woman preferred this position. He would never have suspected.

But tonight, he got lucky. Shifting in her sleep, she had rolled off of him. He had a chance.

Perhaps it was fate.

He gently sat up, placing his feet silently on the floor. All of his things were on the table, prepared for his departure. He was surprised Fiona hadn't suspected. He was surprised she trusted him that much.

And he was about to break that trust.

He restrained the urge to make a noise of exasperation, instead throwing his coat and pants on. This didn't have to be so hard. Why was he making it hard? He had left many people before. He had had sex to get information with many women before. Hell, he had left his own _family_ without saying goodbye.

And all that was done without a second thought.

Now he was with this woman. He didn't sleep with her for information: he did it was fun, that she was strong, beautiful, independent, because he loved the way her eyes lit up whenever she got angry, because flirting with her was the best flirting he had ever done…because he loved her.

He lifted his bag off the table, taking his shoes in his hands, (It was much easier to be silent without them.) and turned around.

He watched her for a moment, in the light of the city through the window. All he could see was her arm, bent and thrown over her head; her red hair, long and wavy, spread out against the white bedsheets; her form, outlined in the dark.

…Damn. She was making it so hard. And she was _asleep._

He walked slowly around the edge of the bed, unable to take his eyes off of her. Doubts floated through his mind: "_Why go at all…take the risk…you like it in Ireland…you can hide, you can run…they won't find you…_"

He knelt beside her, looking into her face for what he thought would be the last time.

So at peace…she looked almost like a stranger.

Almost.

He yearned to reach out, stroke her face, brush that stray strand of hair from her forehead. But there was no telling what she would do if she woke up. He couldn't risk it. He didn't want to be stuck in a hotel room, at 3:30 in the morning, with a furious Fiona: even if she was half-awake.

But he had to do something.

He kissed his fingertips, then touched her lips lightly.

She shifted—he froze, held his breath.

Then she laid still again, the faint ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

He rose to his feet, his heart beginning to twist and tear. He needed to get out; he needed to disappear; and not for the first time in his life, either. Despite the tormented cries and pleadings of that one voice in his mind—the voice that yearned to stay with her, to never leave her side—Michael Westen opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.

_In the end, disappearing in a puff of smoke is the only way spies know how to say goodbye._


End file.
